A Singular Set of People
by Karm Starkiller
Summary: A collection of ficlets that will be updated whenever I write something for it. Inspired by various plot bunnies that have been niggling me for a while. Some based on Canon, others just plain silly. Will probably end up featuring most to all characters.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is the start of a spontaneous and sporadic series of ficlets, all Sherlock Holmes/Lord of the Rings crossovers. That's why they're in the Holmes/LotR crossover section! Imagine that! Anyway, here's the first one. More will follow when I write them. Review please!

"_**What is the name of that inn you spoke of?"**_

"_**The Green Dragon."**_

_**~The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place**_

Sherlock Holmes and I entered the Green Dragon, an inn recommended to us by Mr. John Mason, our client in this case. I took in the welcoming atmosphere of the old-fashioned establishment. Rich brown paneling on the walls and heavy wooden timbers created a timeless warmth.

After depositing our luggage in the double-bedded room, my companion and I returned to the common room. Holmes struck up a conversation with the landlord about a black spaniel tied in the front hall while I made my way to the bar, intending to refresh myself after an a day-long train journey by sampling the local brew.

I had taken only a few excellent sips when I heard a lively song from a far corner of the room.

"_You can search far and wide,_

You can drink the whole town dry—"

Turning, I was shocked to see two young boys on a table, dancing with great enthusiasm to their own song. They were clearly well into their cups.

"Disgraceful," I muttered, both medical and familial instincts thoroughly roused. It was only then that I realized the boys' feet were not only bare, but covered in thick, furry brown hair. "Good heavens!" I sagged suddenly against the bar. Holmes was at my side in a moment.

"Steady, Watson," he murmured in my ear. "Those two belong to an unusual and rather rare race. They are quite typical adults among their own people."

"Good heavens," I said again, weakly.

"The only brew for the brave and true

_Comes from the Green Dragon!"_


	2. Halloween Night

**A/N: Written for the Holmesian dot net Halloween challenge. Yeah, it's a month early. My first-ever supertnatural story. Please review? *insert puppy eyes***

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was alone in the flat at 221B Baker Street. Dr. Watson was out late tending to a patient and Mrs. Hudson was gone for the day, visiting her sister in Norbury. After prowling around the sitting-room, scraping on the violin, even making a feeble attempt at filing some loose newspaper clippings, he flung his lean form into the velvet-lined armchair and glared at the burning coal on the grate. "Why must things be so dreadfully dull?" he muttered, tamping down the tobacco in his long cherrywood pipe with more force than required.

"There are times when I would have chosen what you term 'dull' over the fate that was given me," a low voice said. Holmes looked up, startled, to see a tall, dark figure wrapped in a grimy cloak and hood sitting in Watson's customary armchair. The stranger was also filling a long carved pipe, using a type of leaf Holmes could not recognize.

"Who are you, and how did you avoid my notice until now?" Holmes asked, rather sharply.

The stranger shrugged, a smile playing at the corners of his stern mouth. "Many call me Strider. You may do the same. As to how I evaded your detection, I shall leave that for your excellent mind to puzzle over."

"Very well, Strider, although dealing with an alias makes matters rather awkward." Holmes accepted that Strider had made a distinct touch. "May I enquire as to your business with me?"

Strider smiled again. "No particular matter. I was free to roam tonight, and chose to see how my old homeland fared."

"Indeed. I regret to inform you, Strider, that you have never spent any appreciable amount of time in London before now. There is not the slightest trace of Town influence in your speech. To be perfectly frank, I am unable to identify your accent, much less pinpoint your childhood home."

"I did not expect you to," Strider said, then dragged deeply on his pipe. Holmes drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, waiting for Strider to continue, but he simply stared into the fire and said nothing else.

"If that is all you have come to say, Strider, then I am afraid you are occupying a good deal of time I cannot afford to waste." This was, of course, not true, but Holmes had found it to be a highly effective way of encouraging reticent clients.

"My apologies. It has been more years than I care to recall since I last had a pipe of good weed beside a warm fire," Strider extended his long legs toward the grate, "yet another reason for my travels tonight. I will be forced to leave soon enough."

"Why?" Holmes asked, becoming more irritated by the minute. "It would be extremely gratifying if you would speak plainly and include necessary information. I know a good deal about you already – the most obvious facts being that you have recently traveled through a malodorous marshland, are accustomed to handling both a broadsword and a bow, have been in a good many fights, and come from a respected and probably wealthy family - but there are many facts I do not know. I repeat: May I enquire as to your business with me?"

"As I said, I am here to see what my homeland is like in this age of the world. Many things, including the land itself, have changed, but some things have endured. The lines of the Dúnedain and the Peredhil are still to be found, despite being forgotten." Strider sat straighter, allowing a glimmer of firelight to illuminate keen grey eyes beneath his dark hood. "Part of my business is to discover how they fare as time passes. At one time Námo permitted me to roam every year, but now it is a rare occasion when I leave his halls. Since my last excursion, the remaining memories of my family vanished. Their place in the history of Arda will not be known again, unless old legends are rediscovered."

Holmes eyed Strider skeptically. "You are from the distant past, then."

"In a way, yes."

Holmes stood abruptly. "Sir, I do not take kindly to people's attempts to play absurd practical jokes on me. I have to honour to wish you a very good night."

Strider shrugged. "Very well. The time is near for me to return to the Halls." He stood, worn leather boots soundless on the carpet. Pausing at the door, he turned and looked at Holmes with a meaningful gaze. "Remember, the blood of Númenor is not all spent, even now, and the choice of Lúthien was not made for Men in vain. The descendants of Elessar" – an amused gleam shone in his eye – "still walk the earth, though they do not know who they are." Strider stepped through the door, leaving it open behind him.

Moments later the mantel-clock struck midnight. A chill breeze blew through the room despite fastened windows, bringing with it a faint scent of clear air from high mountain peaks, and the sitting-room door swung shut.


End file.
